


幸福な死を ( A Happy Death )

by gyuuniku



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Blood Kink, Chapter 5 Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, Like not really but I'm covering my bases here, M/M, Murder, Near Death, Near Death Makeout session, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Sloppy Makeouts, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 09:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16472750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyuuniku/pseuds/gyuuniku
Summary: “Momota,” Ouma whispered his name again, and that was when he realized there was no patronizing honorific attached to it this time, no air of superiority in his teasing. Just words, just his name, spoken by a dying boy with blood bubbling from his mouth.Momota gave him his first kiss gently, but when Ouma parted his lips it was clear that wasn’t what he wanted.





	幸福な死を ( A Happy Death )

_地獄に落ちたら救われる_

_If I should fall to Hell and be saved_

_天国昇ればまた会える_

_Then maybe we'll see each other again in Heaven_

 

* * *

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you have this really distinct smell?”

No one had ever told Momota that he smelled like anything in particular, but he didn’t answer with that truth. He felt like a lack of an answer was a response in itself, and his head remain hung toward the ground as the ambient noises of a warehouse completely abandoned vibrated around him.

Completely abandoned, except for Ouma Kokichi.

“Sort of like… rocks on a beach.”

Momota coughed harshly as a strangled noise attempted to emerge from his throat, caught somewhere between sickness and disbelief. Stones in sand…? Was that some sort of new scent being marketed he wasn’t aware of? Sounded like a failed business venture, to him.

Once the bloody flakes crusted around his mouth rubbed off onto his balled fist, slippery to the point of returning to their liquid state from his slimy spit, he wiped his lips clean. His entire hand was ruddy and red, along with the frayed edges of his coat sleeves, but to say he didn’t care was an understatement.

“Are you dying already?” His throat was hoarse with his own demise, his words sounding much like a pile of gravel crunching underneath his vocal chords. He had asserted to himself his head was to remain lowered, but he was magnetically drawn to keep his eyes just lifted enough that he could see Ouma shake his head.

“Nope,” Ouma lied plainly.

“Sounds like it.” He found himself pressured to stand, despite no gun against his head, no violence in his immediate vicinity, every bone in his body seeming to crack at the movement. Spurred to action by the other’s words for the umpteenth time, like so many instances before. It hadn’t even been Ouma’s intention, and he lifted his own heavy head, fuzzy with decomposition. “You’re talkin’ gibberish.”

“Not really, I’ve just never been alone with you before,” Ouma managed to tilt his head despite his neck feeling like it was made of frozen twigs, pain jolting through his body from an untraceable source. “I always thought you would smell bad. Super sweaty, or something.”

Momota’s face crinkled into a familiar frown, making the other grin with his split lips, blood pooling between the cracks.

“You obsessed with smelling people or something?” He was talking out of his ass, the bubble Ouma always caused to surge up inside of him subdued, but ever present. It popped in his mouth with a taste like pure acid when the smaller boy’s smile fell to a flat frown, his joking eyes devoid of any emotion. “Are you going to answer me? And tell the truth for once? Or are you going to be a coward even now?”

He was pushing for such a stupid question, but it wasn’t even the question that mattered. It was the principle of it all, the concept of Ouma, that just pissed him off past reason.

Ouma blinked away the black cobwebs that curled into his vision, obscuring the dim light around until only Momota’s shadowy frame was visible towering over him. There was a rush of clarity, a terrifying spin, that threw him for a loop and left him shivering against the freezing concrete. Pulling at his hair, ripping at the arrows that wounded his body in a myriad of obscene places. Not a human, but a stuck pig. The main dish of the feast he had tried to outsmart. The lucidity brought only one thought,

_‘I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.’_

And then the deadly numbness was back, and Ouma was aware he had never fallen over in the first place. He was grateful, even if that dimness was a sign of what was killing him. It made it easier to hide. He was still sitting upright, and Momota was still looking down at him, his petrifying tantrum safe behind his wide, locked eyes.

But it wasn’t like Momota was actually stupid, he was just slow at the things that made you a winner in this type of game. Unfortunately for Ouma, he wasn’t slow enough to not catch the vivid flashing behind his wet irises, his pupils darting up and down and left and right like frightened fishes. Of course, how had he assumed Ouma wouldn’t be scared of dying?

He had forgotten he was human, in truth.

“Can you carry me there?” Ouma extended his arms upward, childish, small, wilting. Momota was about to ask why, but the weakness in his normally solid limbs was a reminder in itself of what they were dealing with, and that it wasn’t a typical game of pranks. The boy’s arms were already shaking from being held up for such a short period of time, and a wave of relief seemed to rush through their sore muscles when Momota moved closer.

Ouma’s shirtless frame was surprisingly hot, as if his body was desperately clinging to what continued to make him alive by burning itself. His pale skin, his everything, had always made him seem inhuman and untouchable; Momota half expected his skin to be made of wax when he wrapped his arms around him. But it was soft, pressing against the inside of his jacket in places the other wasn’t sure he was fully comfortable being touched by another man, or more specifically by Ouma Kokichi.

He couldn’t lie and say it wasn’t comforting though, feeling something move inside of him to leave space for them to slot together perfectly. They clicked into place, and Ouma wrapped his legs around Momota’s waist, suspended in the air by his outwardly infallible arms. When he latched his hold around his neck, it felt oddly reassuring, the weight on his shoulders a signal he was doing something good. At least, something as good as he could do when he was about to commit murder.

When the rocking movement began as he was carried, Ouma could have closed his eyes and drifted off, conjuring up obscure memories of childhood and soothing cries he had forgotten about. But he wrenched his eyes half-open, though the lids sat heavy, aware these were his last moments left to see anything of the physical world he knew. Whatever came after, he had an acute awareness it was not going to look anything like this.

The metal was gray, the blood was red, Momota’s jacket was purple. It shuffled roughly by his face, and Ouma buried his nose in it, the smells of a struggle and mental suffering not enough to mask the overwhelming scent hidden there. Momota really did smell like the beach, rugged and wild and not all that fun to be with, truthfully. Beautiful in concept, and pictures, but much too rough when touched.

As Ouma’s mind throbbed in and out of vivid consciousness, he became more pacified. He was ebbing in the waves, and the closer it carried him to his death, the calmer he became.

“Momota…” Ouma’s voice sounded far away to his own ears as he was placed on the metal slab, the fabric he had planned to be there catching him off-guard. He had concocted the scheme, it had been his idea from the start, but he seemed to have forgotten that, instead using the jacket slipped from Momota’s shoulders as some last-ditch belief he had ever been cared about. By anyone.

“…Yeah?” Momota had been avoiding looking down at the near corpse he placed on its future coffin, but when Ouma curled his fingers into his stained shirt, his eyes shot down to observe him.

He smiled, stupidly in his fading state, but the fear seeped through when the blood dribbled from between his lips and slid down the side of his face.

He began pulling at Momota, tugging him closer with the remaining bit of strength he could muster out of his body. His fingers were freezing, and the skin beneath the thin shirt he dug his nails into was warm, addictingly so, to the point he couldn’t stop clawing at it. Momota leaned closer, not sure why, not sure what he was expecting, but when Ouma’s defiled lips reached up to meet his he stiffened.

“Momota,” Ouma whispered his name again, and that was when he realized there was no patronizing honorific attached to it this time, no air of superiority in his teasing. Just words, just his name, spoken by a dying boy with blood bubbling from his mouth.

Momota gave him his first kiss gently, but when Ouma parted his lips it was clear that wasn’t what he wanted. His teeth were gnashing, a zombie desperate for life force to any outside observer. But Momota was smarter than that, he knew it was the kiss of a man that had accepted death.

It still startled him though, to have his mouth wrenched open, enough that his body jolted, and he let out a sputter to hold the cough inside. He succeeded, but the blood came out, dribbling down his chin and mixing with Ouma’s as their lips passed over each other. They were panting into each other’s mouths and moving in ways no murderer and victim ever should, but they continued kissing crudely until Ouma pulled back and licked at his bottom lip with his pointed tongue.

“Do it,” he said, but his fingers remained curled in the other boy’s shirt, betraying his fractured mind.

“I will,” Momota assured him, but he didn’t move, and instead stared at him for a little while longer, his hands pressed against the cold metal.

* * *

 

_Partially inspired by >[this art](https://twitter.com/gun_barre1/status/1057496808853770244)<_

**Author's Note:**

> Idk what I'm even doingggggggg
> 
> I'm not doing too hot emotionally if you couldn't tell... What even if this. Gross garbage. It's 3:30 AM and I'm curdling.
> 
> Thank you for reading!! Feel free to leave a comment or check me out on other social media @silvakuros before I delete this lmaofhhjd


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